


"crest research"

by tsunderestorm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Azure Moon Route, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21651568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: A true scholar researches every variable, and Linhardt is passionate about nothing if not Crests and how they affect their bearers.He is also horny.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 33
Kudos: 216





	"crest research"

**Author's Note:**

> me: if dimitri fucked linhardt would that be cool or what
> 
> yeah, I have no real explanation.
> 
> the wonderful [cherry](https://twitter.com/cherryconke) did fanart for this fic, which can be found [here](https://twitter.com/cherryconke/status/1202627139410878464?s=20)! absolutely take a look and give it a like, a rt and an awesome compliment!

The council clears, leaving only the king they rally around and one bleary mage, stirring in the corner seat from a nap he ought not to have been taking. Mercifully out of sight of the more observant members of his retinue and trusting that Linhardt’s lips are not loose, Dimitri circles his shoulder to stretch it only to feel a dull pain shoot down his arm. It’s been aching terribly recently… but, he supposes that is the nature of old war wounds.

Linhardt regards him from the corner, appraising him through half-lidded eyes. Dimitri is more relaxed, now; no longer the beast on the prowl pacing Garreg Mach’s cathedral and demanding offerings of corpses. Now, he is a golden, handsome thing, clad in his kingdom’s blues and whites and his preferred black. At least, Linhardt thinks he is handsome… admittedly, he hasn’t given it much thought when the thing he finds most alluring about King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is something found far beneath the surface. Still, there are worse traits to have, he supposes, than Dimitri’s broad shoulders and trim waist, biceps that the soft fabric of his shirt clings to and a face that bears the ravages of time but still wears a smile.

Dimitri is handsome, he’ll admit. But that Crest… a minor of Blaiddyd, now _that_ is attractive.

“Does it hurt?” Linhardt asks curiously, gesturing at Dimitri’s shoulder as he extricates himself from the awkward position that he’s folded himself into in his seat.

“I’m quite alright,” Dimitri says as Linhardt crosses the room, relaxing his tense form to reassure him. “It is nothing I cannot bear.”

Linhardt would never claim to be observant, or well-versed in the subtle wordplay that typifies the people he’s grown accustomed to (out of a lack of desire, not skill) but he knows this game. Dimitri doesn’t want anyone to worry, doesn’t want any of the people who’ve devoted their lives to him to lose sleep over his own physical health… but Linhardt doesn’t care about all of that. His desires are base, selfish in a way (he’s been called it, once or twice) and healing Dimitri aligns nicely with one of his own goals.

He offers, thoughtfully, “I could heal you, just a bit.”

Dimitri is dumbfounded. Linhardt doesn’t usually offer. The only person that he’s seen heal without prompting is his friend Caspar, who despite reservations about his Adrestian father’s prowess had followed Linhardt and transferred into his house one day after he had, in the second week of the Verdant Rain Moon the year before their lives had all changed. Normally, trying to get Linhardt to serve as a proper healer is like pulling teeth, and no amount of prompting from Mercedes can make him do more than the bare minimum. To be offered his healing touch… well, it almost seems too good to be true. It seems like something Dimitri shouldn’t dare turn down.

It’s not something he _wants_ to turn down, besides.

“I would greatly appreciate that,” he says, and without a second thought he’s tugging his loose shirt up and over his head and balling it up on the table. Healing magic can pass through clothing, of course, but he finds that it feels better on bare skin, with nothing in between. He takes a seat on a bench near the door, sitting up straight and offering Linhardt an encouraging smile. “Thank you, my friend.”

Linhardt sets down the heavy tome he’s been toting around for the past day or so, a remnant of Cornelia’s collection of spell books from the library at Fhirdiad, and moves to stand behind Dimitri.

“I’d never want to rule a kingdom,” he sighs, adding with a yawn, “so much work… how _do_ you do it?” He closes his eyes to concentrate, summoning the healing magic he’s practiced to his hands, letting it course through his fingertips and warm his palms. He can feel when it floods through Dimitri, because the man heaves out a grateful sigh and relaxes immediately. Now… Linhardt isn’t one to exert himself, but if he had to pick one part of mastering his faith that isn’t _only_ wholly and entirely taxing, it would be the satisfaction of knowing that he’s remarkably good at what he does.

It will suit his goals quite nicely, he thinks. 

Not one to beat around the bush, Linhardt asks, “Is it true that it’s your Crest that makes you almost inhumanly strong?” He’s never been the type to do something without some benefit… that is, and has always been, an exhaustion not worth the effort. He’s seen Dimitri’s performance in battle, seen him spin his Relic like a mere baton in his grasp, and (unfortunately, considering all of the blood) seen him fell soldier after soldier. Strength is not something he is ignorant of when it comes to the king of Faerghus, but it is something that intrigues him. Intrigues him… incites his curiosity, excites him.

Dimitri tenses for a moment, but laughs, turning with some difficulty to focus on Linhardt with his singular eye. “Yes, yes it does. It’s a nuisance, really… I used to break what felt like one practice lance a day because I didn’t know my own strength.”

Dimitri swears he can see Linhardt’s eyes light up, a grin tugging at the corners of his bowed lips. 

“But I’ve learned to control it.”

“Does your Crest offer any other benefits or hindrances?” Linhardt asks curiously, conversationally, as he moves his hands over the tense coil of muscle that is Dimitri’s right shoulder. It’s so inflamed that Linhardt can feel the angry heat under his hands, feel the resistance of the man’s injured muscle against his fingers. _How tiresome_ , he thinks, making him work above and beyond for something he wants? Absolutely ridiculous. He concentrates on his faith, calling forth a higher level of healing that he’s perfected… a more intensive magic. It’s worth it, he supposes, for the intended purpose.

As surprisingly skilled hands massage his aching shoulder and back, Dimitri reflects on the fact that doesn’t know Linhardt very well, and how much he should change that. The scholar comes and goes, content to wander with Caspar through the cities that are slowly coming back to life, only to return when he’s run out of reading material or in need of something. He only knows enough of the young man to know that Crests are the only thing he really enjoys talking about, that he enjoys long naps and abhors poor table manners, and that he’ll only summon the motivation if something piques his interest… which, Dimitri realizes with some confidence, he apparently has.

“Some things, though nothing that makes life unbearable.” It is an honest answer, open for interpretation. It occurs to him that the scholar will not be pleased with the vagueness of it, and he finds himself happy with that. He will ask for elaboration: a more definite answer, as many details as Dimitri can provide. Linhardt is lazy, but insatiable in a way… Dimitri can appreciate that. He is half-beast, after all; he knows hunger.

Linhardt is not satisfied. Brows furrowed, he presses, “Only hindrances, then? There have to be _some_ benefits, I’d imagine… some idiosyncrasies not observed in other bearers of different Crests…”

Honestly, he isn’t as exhausted as he had expected to be. Normally healing at this level would take it out of him, leave him yawning before wounds even closed and aches even settled, but he wants this. He wants to see if it will affect him, wants to test Dimitri’s prowess off the battlefield… wants _him._

Linhardt’s hands are smooth and dry, warm with the pulse of his healing magic, working over Dimitri’s shoulders and back, thumbs digging into the juncture of shoulder and neck. It feels good - goddess, it feels like heaven. He’s always been weak for healers; first with Mercedes’ tender touches and Marianne’s hesitant healing, even the Professor’s when they had discovered their proficiency in faith. He just seems to need it more… he is strong, and Areadbhar is _his_ (every Blaiddyd Crest-bearer since the time of the Elites has wielded it, and he was born to carry the weight) but that does not mean the weight is not heavy. It does not mean that sometimes the bulk of his lance doesn’t make old injuries cry out in agony, and it does not mean that old scars don’t still sting. All of that, though… it seems like nothing when Linhardt’s hands are pulling what feels like every ounce of fatigue and pain from his muscles, from his very _bones_. 

He’s ashamed to admit that not only does he not truly know him, but he’s never truly even _looked_ at the former Hevring heir. Now, in the privacy of his council chambers in a reclaimed Faerghus amidst a peaceful Fódlan, he can look at him and truly _see_ him… and the sight is breathtaking. The soft roundness of his face has angled out just enough to be handsome and elegant all at once, and his hair in loose strands around his face falling from the bow he has it secured with give him a beauty that Dimitri feels drawn to in the way one might a precious keepsake that he should not touch. 

Linhardt’s lips are parted as he works his healing fingers into Dimitri’s shoulders, eyes dreamy and half-lidded, dark lashes fanning against his cherubic cheeks like a doll’s. One would expect his skin to be sickly pale, sallow from nights in the library and not enough sun, but there’s a rosy flush to his cheeks that Dimitri could not have anticipated. His unexpected beauty, the slight weight of his hands, the heat coursing through Dimitri’s blood...

It affects him. Hell, it always has, shamefully. He feels the heat build in his groin, a demon playing nicely with the shame settling into his belly. He’s always had this particular… reaction, leading him to pull away from any healers before his injuries are even truly remedied. Punishment, he supposes, but he has never been able to look Mercedes in the eye and even attempt to explain himself, and he would never be able to weather what he imagines would have been a look of pure betrayal on Marianne’s face if she’d known. The Professor, too… goddess, the Professor’s healing magic has done more for him than anyone else’s, but he barely lets them heal him for fear they’ll go silent in the wake of his shame. 

Linhardt is silent behind him, focused on his task, gingerly moving his fingers around the epicenter of pain that is his lance arm and Dimitri is thankful for it, hopeful that the man won’t notice the way Dimitri shifts atop the bench or the bulge tenting the front of his trousers. Without the armor he’d had to wear during wartime, there’s no hiding it.

Linhardt digs his thumbs into a spot that hurts as much as it relieves and Dimitri cannot bite back the groan, low and throaty. The feel of Linhardt’s soft, willowy body pressed against his back, his hands infusing that healing magic into every ache and pain… it’s too good. It makes his dick twitch in his trousers, and he tries to rub the heel of his palm as nonchalantly as he can against it, Bruisingly, punishingly, _you shouldn’t be like this_. He swallows back a groan that’s half pain, half pleasure, and Linhardt answers it with a small, pleased sound at the back of his throat. Draping himself over Dimitri’s back to hook his chin against his good shoulder, he chirps, “Ah, so it does have that effect on you. Excellent!”

Linhardt couldn’t be more pleased. 

Dimitri whips his head around so fast he makes himself dizzy, but Linhardt is already abandoning his post and walking around to kneel before him, smoothing the drape of his cloak beneath his knees and looking up at Dimitri with bright curiosity. Dimitri watches him with one eye that he hopes doesn’t convey the hunger that suddenly feels overwhelming. 

Linhardt’s hands skim up the insides of Dimitri’s muscular thighs, humming appreciatively at the cords of muscle that his trousers conceal. He is as much a weapon as the Relic his family lays claim to, strong and powerful and something Linhardt very much wants to study.

He concentrates the barest amount of healing energy into his hands, letting the slow drag of his fingertips leave a trail of bright pleasure in their wake. It’s something that always works on Caspar, something that makes him hard and slick, makes his hips stuttery and his skin fever-hot from the feel of it, and given Dimitri’s enthusiastic reaction it’s something that he’ll enjoy.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he says, nonchalantly, like Dimitri isn’t embarrassing himself, like he isn’t painfully hard already simply because he was being _healed_ , like the sight of Linhardt kneeling between his legs isn’t making his cock drool. It’s not as if he’s a stranger to this, now, but he can feel a wet spot spreading. “It happens to a lot of people. You’d be surprised. Anyways, does the Crest of Blaiddyd also play a role in your size?”

“Both your body,” Linhardt elaborates, and as his questing fingers find the swollen head of Dimitri’s cock beneath his trousers and squeeze, he continues, “and your cock. It seems quite big. I’d be interested to know if the minor Crest of Blaiddyd creates more tangible physical benefits alongside your seemingly accelerated healing and impressive strength.”

Dimitri watches, rapt as Linhardt’s fingers undo the lacings of his pants and tug them down his thighs, dumbly realizing he should have at the very least lifted his hips to help. His cock springs free, jutting up proudly, wet and shiny at the tip. Goddess, what is he doing? He’s a king, now. A king shouldn’t be letting any of his subjects kneel before him in the abandoned war council room, take his cock in hand, especially in the name of… Crest research? For passion, perhaps it could be excused, but not this. Not this… indulgence.

But then, he wonders, isn’t this better? It means nothing. Goddess knows he needs the relief. If they’re both getting something out of it, then what’s the harm? If he gets his aches and pains healed away, and Linhardt gets… whatever in the name of the flames he’s trying to get, then there’s nothing wrong.

“Were the other men of your family so well-endowed? Is this considered a ‘blessing from the goddess’?” My, what an interesting thought…” 

Dimitri doesn’t want to think about the other men in his family at a time like this, let alone their… endowments. He wants to think about his cock, and Linhardt, and what exactly Linhardt is going to _do_ with his cock. 

“Linhardt,” he says, thumb rubbing over the thoughtful pout of Linhardt’s full, plush lips. Linhardt tilts his head at him curiously, drawing the fingertip into his mouth. His tongue curls around it, releasing it with distinctly wet _pop_ once it’s well and truly slick with spit. Hoping his smile isn’t too wolfish, Dimitri says, “I do _not_ know the answer to that.”

“How disappointing…” Linhardt sighs, but there’s no conviction behind it. He props his elbow on Dimitri’s knee and rests his face in his hand, taking in the look of Dimitri from base to tip, the girth of him obscene in his grip. His hands are not small, his fingers long, but Dimitri’s cock dwarfs them, somehow. There’s absolutely no way in the name of Seiros that this can be anything _but_ augmented by his Crest, Linhardt thinks, when it’s bigger than he ever could have imagined. 

Linhardt isn’t saying anything, and Dimitri feels the silence. Clearing his throat, he asks shakily, “Do you like it?”

Linhardt answers, “I like it best when it’s big,” and Dimitri’s dick twitches in his grasp. “It’s more fun that way.”

Is he being used? Is he being honored? Dimitri’s dick is so hard his head feels fuzzy, and he’s gripping the edge of the bench so hard he swears he’ll leave fingerprints. Linhardt looks up at him, and Dimitri has to bite his lip half-bloody not to growl out a moan. 

“You’re going to fuck me with it, aren’t you?” Linhardt asks, and he’s pleased to feel Dimitri’s cock pulse in his grip, a fresh round of precum beading at the tip. 

“I don’t have -“Dimitri begins, and Linhardt digs in his pocket to extract a vial. It’s thick, viscous, glinting in the light and when he uncaps it, it oozes across his fingers and shines in the dancing light of the candles in their sconces lining the wall.

“Do you think I would have come unprepared?” Linhardt asks. Honestly, he should be insulted… for Dimitri to think that a dedicated researcher would not consider each and every variable… how absolutely ridiculous.

“Is this just Crest research to you?” Dimitri asks. He’s fine if it is (he thinks) but he doesn’t _want_ it to be, not when Linhardt is pretty, and mostly kind, and so… ah, his hands. Such elegant hands. Such warm, skilled hands. He wants this to be a mutual favor between friends, but with how hard his dick is and how surprisingly shapely Linhardt’s body is now that he’s truly looking at it, he’s not sure he cares too much. Goddess, forgive him. 

“Crest research is an added benefit to this kind of release. I’ll be honest with you, Dimitri, I enjoy sleeping. I don’t sleep as well recently, since the war. I believe that you will help both with my Crest research, and my sleep. If you fuck me hard, I’ll sleep better.”

Dimitri gapes at him. He hadn’t expected such a candid admission, right there in black and white and as simple as the sky’s blue and time’s unending flow. 

Dimitri clasps Linhardt’s hands in his and tugs him up from the ground and into his lap, sliding his hands around his waist to find the sharp jut of his hips as he guides him astride him to present easier access to the buttons and lacings of his own trousers. Mercifully ( _surprisingly_ )Linhardt cooperates, chin tucking into Dimitri’s neck as he leans forward, cock pressing half-clothed against Dimitri’s abs. He presses the vial of oil into Dimitri’s palm, and he gets the message, letting it drip down to coat his fingers.

Dimitri works his hand down the back of Linhardt’s trousers, caressing the supple skin of his ass and running fingers down the short length of Linhardt’s cock half-hard between his legs, over the velvety swell of his balls, and back up into the cleft of his ass. Linhardt shudders and makes a soft noise against Dimitri’s shoulder when Dimitri circles a finger around his hole. There’s only the slightest bit of resistance, and his finger slides in easier than he would have expected. He’s gentle with him, mindful of Linhardt’s soft body and tight, sensitive hole. Dimitri has grown worlds better, but he still doesn’t know his own strength.

Linhardt yawns and says, more than a little impatiently, “I’m not fragile. You know, I wanted to see your strength in action… not on the battlefield. Is this it?” He knows that Dimitri is capable of more than this, that he’s holding back for fear of hurting him. Linhardt doesn’t care if he gets hurt, doesn’t care if Dimitri leaves him fucked open and dripping, not when the promise of a good night’s sleep and a bevy of new Crest research to fill his notebooks with is on the line. He slips off his boot, nudging it against the leg of the bench until he can kick it aside.

“I’m sorry…?” Dimitri asks, but then he understands. He won’t say he isn’t shocked that the lazy little mage, the self-professed expert in avoiding any kind of effort, wants it _rough_ … but if Linhardt wants a show of his strength, a firsthand encounter with ( _arms hands thighs hips)_ all of the parts of him that he’s only recently begun to not resent for their strength and carelessness... then he will have it. 

Dimitri hooks the two fingers he has two knuckles deep in Linhardt’s hole and drags him upwards, bodily, like a puppet in the hand of a particularly demanding master. Linhardt follows, a rag doll in the arms of its owner, falling against Dimitri’s chest and blinking up at him with lashes like fine fans against his flushed cheeks. He is sleepy, something Dimitri has learned is a near-constant, worn out by the faith he’d put into the healing magic he worked over his body with. He is breakable, a doll made of the finest porcelain, and Dimitri knows he should not fuck him. 

The beast he’d been a few months ago would have torn him to shreds. He wonders, darkly, if Linhardt would have studied the bruises and bites an encounter with him _then_ would have left. He should not fuck him, no matter how slack his hole’s gone around his fingers, no matter how obscenely slick he sounds as Dimitri fucks fingers in and out of him. He should not fuck Linhardt, he thinks as he stands up, holding Linhardt around his waist like he weighs nothing. He’s the slightest of burdens, wispy and lean, and it takes little effort for Dimitri to cradle him in one arm while his hand busies itself dragging Linhardt’s pants down and off, awkwardly hanging off one leg so he can spread him. 

“Don’t take your hands off of me,” Dimitri growls, low, as his cock bumps against Linhardt’s smooth ass. “I want to feel you.”

He should not fuck Linhardt, but he will. The buzz of magic between them, the warm, small bond he’s come to know that healers leave with all of their charges, ties them together. His fingers in Linhardt’s ass, three and counting, blazing a path for his throbbing cock, ties them together. 

“My, my… as expected, you are very strong,” Linhardt muses, fingers playing over Dimitri’s biceps, his pectorals, the veins standing out starkly against the cross-cross of scars on his forearms; physical representations of the Crest that strengthens his body. “You aren’t even breaking a sweat.”

“You don’t weigh much.”

Linhardt huffs. “Still,” as he holds on, arms and legs around Dimitri’s bulk. His ankles are crossed at Dimitri’s back, prim and proper even as he’s being fucked open on Dimitri’s hand. Dimitri’s fingers are thicker than expected, pressing somewhere deep inside of him, slicking him up from the inside out. It’s hard to tell if it’s more about the Crest research or the dicking he’s about to get at this point… maybe it’s about the fact that he knows that he’ll sleep like the dead tonight, tired from a round of fucking the strongest man they all know. 

Dimitri has never had someone as easy as Linhardt. He’s near-boneless in his grip, content to be held, pliant and easily guided and there’s something _delicious_ about that, something so fun about being able to do what he wishes and knowing that even as lazy he is, Linhardt would certainly make it known if he didn’t like it. His head feels fuzzy. He wonders if the healing magic is like alcohol, or herbs, something he can have too much of… a high in and of itself. More likely, it’s all the blood rushing to his cock, rutting up against Linhardt’s pillowy thighs and _goddess_ , he’s acutely aware that he needs it in _now_. 

Linhardt makes a sound the likes of which Dimitri has never heard from him when he extracts his fingers, a whine that is not the mumbled complaint of being rallied for battle or the soft sigh when he’s woken from a nap, high and reedy as Dimitri circles a fingertip around Linhardt’s slack rim. It’s needy, a soft sound Dimitri will think about for weeks to come, but it’s nothing compared to the noise of pure hunger that Linhardt makes when Dimitri presses the blunt head of his cock at his opening and begins to press inside. It’s not an easy slide, and he has to reach beneath the mage to hold his cock steady, working the thick head past Linhardt’s slick rim. 

“ _Heal me,_ ” Dimitri grunts, face tucking into Linhardt’s neck as the mage’s body stretches to accommodate him. Linhardt mumbles a protest, but Dimitri lets the hold he has under Linhardt’s ass slip for just a moment, feeling him swallow up more of his length as he sinks down. “I want your hands.”

Linhardt nods slowly against his neck, fingers matching the trembling in his thighs as he summons forth his faith and skitters his fingers along Dimitri’s impossibly broad shoulders. Dimitri moans when the magic ripples against his skin once more, burrowing somewhere beneath the surface, licking right down his spine to his pelvis and shooting straight to his dick. The healing magic is a different sensation when it’s not alleviating pain, sharp and hot and making him feel like he has some sort of fever, almost _sick_ with it.

Dimitri adjusts his hold and slowly, carefully, draws back until he feels the head of his cock about to leave the impossible tightness of Linhardt’s hole. He evaluates, cognizant of his own strength and snaps his hips in what he hopes is rough enough to sate the little mage, but not so rough that he hurts him.

“ _Saints,_ ” Linhardt pants, nails digging into the meat of Dimitri’s shoulders, the magic flow falters for just a moment. Dimitri growls in response to the fresh scratches, thumbs rubbing circles in the plush curve of Linhardt’s ass as he holds him easy. It’s easy to set a rhythm, lifting Linhardt to let him back down, fucking up into him fast and hard. Bouncing him on his cock is easy, meeting every roll down with a sharp snap of his hips, skin slapping against Linhardt’s. All he can stutter out is soft _ah-ah-ah_ as Dimitri fucks him.

“It’s,” he stutters, “quite big. What a - _ah_ , what a hassle to take…” Dimitri is the biggest that Linhardt’s had, thick and fulfilling, but dear goddess is it _a lot_. A lot, and somehow, he still wants more. What would be the point of all this if he doesn’t push himself? What would be the point of such an exhausting encounter if he isn’t left fucked out and satisfied, both in body and mind?

His words are punctuated by gasps as Dimitri bounces him on his dick, fills the depths of him with his impossibly thick cock. Still, Linhardt babbles, dragging a hand appreciatively over Dimitri’s chest. “I wonder if you could truly give me all that you have to offer… or if you’d likely be too much to handle with the full might of your Crest… _ah_ , I’d love to do research on that...”

“Linhardt,” Dimitri says, impossibly low, turning and sucking a bite into the pale column of his neck. “No more. No more Crest research.”

Linhardt huffs, shooting Dimitri a scowl and Dimitri can almost feel the biting response the likes of which he’s heard him offer to Caspar, even the Professor, but he silences it with a positively brutal thrust, making his mouth go slack as he moans.

“Besides, you couldn’t. I’d break you.”

Linhardt muffles a moan into Dimitri’s shoulder as Dimitri bottoms out and stays there, just letting him _feel it_. Linhardt’s cock bobs half-hard against Dimitri’s belly, lazy even in his interested pleasure. Dimitri is well aware that he’s being used, that this was all a clever trick to see the bright burn of Dimitri’s Crest in action but goddess, that’s fine. Dimitri is using him too, using his slick walls to clutch at his cock, using the squeeze of Linhardt’s hungry hole to wring an orgasm he didn’t even realize he needed out of him. 

Linhardt rolls his hips, pressing his cock against Dimitri’s belly, smearing precum across his taut muscle, too lazy to even touch himself as he gets taken. It’s cute, in a way, and Dimitri growls out a laugh, gets his hands gripping greedy handfuls of Linhardt’s ass to lift him.

Eventually, Linhardt tires of the lack of attention paid to his own neglected cock and reaches between them. He thumbs over the head and shudders, hips fluttering as he jerks himself out of rhythm with Dimitri’s thrusts. Dimitri, smiling, shakes his head, thumbs massaging Linhardt’s ass, the backs of his thighs, anything to pull more of those soft, panting moans from his lips.

“Don’t worry,” Linhardt murmurs, “ ‘s not hard to make me.” Linhardt comes as easy as he sleeps, easy and unobtrusive, and his climax with Dimitri will be no different. He can already feel it, hot and low in his belly before it washes over him. His hand sets a halfhearted pace stroking his cock and aiding the inevitable until he paints Dimitri’s stomach in ropes of come.

Something about making someone as disinterested as Linhardt come around his cock has Dimitri feeling more fulfilled than he has in a long time. He knows Linhardt’s ass will bear bruises in the shape of his fingerprints from how tightly he holds him, balls pinched up tight as he slams into him, goddess help him he’s almost there and if Linhardt isn’t complaining it’s not _too much_ , chasing his own climax. When he comes it’s deep inside of Linhardt, making him shudder out a weak moan as he feels it flood into him.

Linhardt feels absolutely wrecked. Dimitri is no small feat, and he’s disappointed that in the wake of his own pleasure he neglected to ask Dimitri pertinent questions that he would have loved answers to. It’s no matter, not when Dimitri’s cock is no small feat, not when it felt so good to be filled by it. He lets himself be held, hands linked loosely behind his neck, thighs still quivering where Dimitri is supporting them. The king’s cock is still inside of him, and he spares a cursory thought to a Blaiddyd Crest bearer’s possibility of a diminished refractory period. 

Food for thought at a later date, he supposes.

“Thank you for your contribution to Crest research,” Linhardt says as Dimitri gently sets him down on the bench. 

Laughing, giddy with his recent orgasm and charmed by Linhardt’s sleepy afterglow, Dimitri bends to pick up one of Linhardt’s hastily discarded boots. As he nudged it towards him, he asks, “What conclusions have you come to, friend?”

Linhardt yawns, tugging his pants back onto both legs on and stepping into his boots. “The minor Crest of Blaiddyd may or may not augment your sexual performance. More research is required.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I am [tsunderestorm](twitter.com/tsunderestorm) on twitter come join the shitshow ♥


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